


Hopeland

by PlumTea



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Future Fic, M/M, Pining, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14272278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlumTea/pseuds/PlumTea
Summary: Years later, Kageyama is still chasing after Oikawa. Even now, when Oikawa is standing by his side.





	Hopeland

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Oikage Charity Zine](http://oikagezine.tumblr.com)! If you haven't looked at it yet, consider checking it out! A whole range of talented people worked on it, and I had a great time!

Kageyama has always wanted Oikawa. Always, in the sharp glint of his eyes and the sweat clinging to his white uniform. Sometimes he sees Oikawa on television, sometimes on train ads, sometimes in playbacks of old games to study.

Then in professional tryouts, he finds soft brown hair and his heart pounds in his hands. Oikawa spots him, and looks flustered and sour. They’re paired together, having to perform under the watchful eyes of the recruiters. 

“Oikawa-san, your serve.”

Oikawa looks at him like he’s a match ready to be burned, and then smashes the ball across the court. It nearly takes off Kageyama’s ear, and he thinks of how naturally perfect it is. 

Months later, on an unreasonably chilly morning. “Oikawa-san.” Kageyama holds out a key to his new apartment. “Please room with me.”

Oikawa’s breath is visible around his parted mouth and he sneers before snatching the key away. “Fine. One night.”

* * *

One night turns into weeks, into months. Green slippers are tucked next to Kageyama’s by the door. Half the rent presented in a stark white envelope on his dresser. Strands of wavy brown hair in the bathroom drain.

Sometimes Kageyama wonders if he’s dreaming under his heavy blanket, but Oikawa is always up early, stretching in front of the TV. 

Kageyama eats his last slice of cake from the fridge and doesn’t even think about New Years until Oikawa presses a receipt into his hand. He nearly chokes at the total of 15,000 yen.

“So much?”

“That’s your half.”

“What’s this for?”

“Osechi.” Oikawa flings his coat onto the coat rack and it lands perfectly every time.

The Kageyama household was the only family that still cooked New Years dinner in the neighborhood. He hasn’t had osechi since those days spent marinating shiitake mushrooms and clouding the whole kitchen in soy sauce and mirin. Some of the food stuffed in the layered boxes tasted strange, but he had to try everything. Those childhood dinners were always quiet, and Kageyama would always end up with cooked carrot between his teeth and marinade on the corner of his mouth.

Did Oikawa’s family cook for the holidays, or did they line up at the department store to reserve a set? It hits him like slow ice that he doesn’t know anything about Oikawa’s family life.

“What did you get in it?”

“So inquisitive. Trust Oikawa-san’s judgment.”

He does, so he nods. 

Oikawa’s face goes tight. “No input?”

“No, you probably know what you’re doing.”

Oikawa sniffs like the wind has invaded their living room, and stalks to the kitchen. As he dumps some sauces into the stovetop pot, the salt of soy sauce tickles Kageyama’s nose.

“I thought you bought osechi.”

“It’s soba. Most people that aren’t you should be able to make it easily.”

“We’re not buying it?”

“Not everyone can live off conbini curry and bento and instant noodles every single day.”

“I’ll help,” Kageyama begins before Oikawa flattens him with a glare. 

“Happy new year, have some food poisoning! Sit and watch some TV.”

They pull out plates Kageyama didn’t know they had. The bowls are black lacquer with abalone leaves on the bottom, gifts from Oikawa’s parents. 

Kageyama doesn’t listen to enough music to find the Kouhaku interesting, so he falls into the routine of watching Oikawa work. He’s always known Oikawa’s hands: how they curled around a volleyball so seamlessly in games, how they wound into his hair and  _ pulled _ . But the black knife handle is snug in his palm, and his knuckles dust the cutting board as the scallions go  _ chop, chop, chop _ .

Even now, his back is broad, standing over the oven in his blue sweater and dark pants. Sometimes Kageyama wonders when, like all the times before, Oikawa’s back will retreat into the distance and he’ll have to chase after it. He thought it would’ve been the morning after he first asked Oikawa to stay, but it wasn’t. That day would come eventually.

Oikawa turns, blinking. He looks down and says, “You can just ask me when it’s ready.” 

Kageyama sees his fingers pinching the hem of Oikawa’s shirt, and he jumps back. He’s surprised they come back unburnt.

“So impatient. Let me finish this broth.” 

The winter wind claws against the walls, and a white trail of frost is sleeping on the windowsill. The slow boil of broth simmers into the low chorus from the TV. Couch time is the best chance to do leg lifts, but Kageyama rests his legs across the armrest and closes his eyes—

—His eyes snap open when Oikawa slams a bottle of sake in the space between his legs. 

“Dinner,” he says, charming enough to be nice and sharp enough to cut through Kageyama’s throat.

The soba in his plate are all chopped into eighths. It looks more like a small piece of pasta. Really tiny pasta. He frowns across the table into Oikawa’s plate, but all his noodles are the right length. 

“Oikawa-san?”

Oikawa sloshes his broth. “Mm?”

“Why are my noodles so short?”

“The longer your soba noodles are, the longer your life. So I chopped all yours to pieces!”

Years come and go, and Oikawa’s bad personality stays the same. 

Before he can get up and get a spoon, Oikawa pulls lacquer chopsticks out of thin air and presses a set right by Kageyama’s napkin. “Eat up, Tobio-chan.”

His broth looks more like a soup disaster than New Year’s soba, but he can’t turn down food Oikawa made.

When the noodles end early, Kageyama’s teeth clack against each other and he chokes. Oikawa watches him, not smiling, but his eyes are crinkled up in amusement. There’s a chunk of noodle on Kageyama’s lips, but he’s not dabbing it away while Oikawa is right in front of him. 

He gulps the bowl down, and huffs as the warmth from the broth sizzles along his ears. “That was delicious.”

Oikawa blinks, and then his lips curl up in a sneer. “Damn brat.”

* * *

“Do you usually go to the temples? Pick up your fortune, drink warm sake, listen to the bells, that sort of stuff?”

Kageyama pauses. He’s not sure if he won’t accidentally scratch the beautiful bowls with the sponge if he’s not paying attention. The temples were a routine visit when he still lived with his parents, but they’re just a memory now that he’s on his own. He usually ends up going out for a midnight jog, same as every other day. He’d pick up his fortune and toss a few coins into the donation box on New Year’s Day, in between watching volleyball game reruns and eating store-bought mochi. “Not really.”

Oikawa clicks his tongue. “We’re going.”

The clock reads 10:30. He isn’t sure how to protest, so all he does is watch the second hand tick in its regular revolution.

“Get dressed. We’re going, right now.”

“Okay.”

Oikawa gives him that fox-smile that flickers in the light. He pulls a cream-colored box out from under the dresser and blows the dust off the lid. When Kageyama tries to peek, Oikawa swats at him. “Be ready in half an hour!” he says, pressing the box to his chest before slamming the bedroom door shut. 

The TV says that it’s another cold night, so Kageyama shifts around in the closet for something warm. His dark down jacket should work, along with a heavy sweater. It’s probably scarf weather, so he finds one tucked behind his socks in the heavy bureau by the door. A few flurries are swirling under the streetlight. He doesn’t usually wear hats, but if he’s going to be standing outside in the snow for an hour, it’s probably a safe bet. 

It’s not a long wait before the bedroom door slams open, and Oikawa steps out in a full formal kimono. His outer coat is pure white, even brighter against the turquoise of his kimono. Kageyama expected solid colored pants, but Oikawa’s is dark, and patterned with white latticework in a perfect blend of thick and thin lines. He looks over Kageyama once, scrunches up his nose, and says, “Typical. You look terrible.”

“We don’t have to wear kimono—”

“Walk next to me the whole time, so I’ll look even better.”

It was fact before and it’s fact now, that Oikawa is undeniably beautiful. Looking at him sends Kageyama’s heart into a frenzy. “Amazing,” he wants to say, maybe, “Can I hold your hand to see if you’re real?”, but all he can manage is, “It’s nice.”

“I know.”

The wind nips at Kageyama’s cheeks as soon as they leave the apartment, and he sharply inhales. It’s a ten minute walk to the temple, and Kageyama doesn’t leave Oikawa’s side, as promised. Oikawa’s nose is red, and his cheeks are tinged pink from the cold. He slips his hands into his sleeves and rub them against his arms. The thin layer of snow crunches under his sandals, but he refuses to shiver. 

The crowd flows in like fish, and they fall into the stream. Kageyama’s memories outside of volleyball are all crayon scribbles, but he squints his way through the lines of people. The sky has no stars, and the temple lanterns wash everything in yellow light. Looming beyond them is the temple filled with shadows of the past and future. 

Kageyama doesn’t know the sentiments of getting fortunes-- pay the attendant, shake the box, show the attendant which stick you pulled-- but his breath always catches in his throat when he sees what he got. 

Oikawa’s fingers are long, red from the cold, and fitted with perfect crescent moon nails that hook over the slip of paper when he pushes his fortune in Kageyama’s face. “This is your fault.”

Kageyama squints between the lines of kanji he can’t read, and finds  _ Future Curse _ in bold ink. All he can do is crumple the  _ Great Blessing  _ in his pocket and ask, “What are you going to do?” 

Oikawa’s smile is white with all fangs. “Prove it wrong.”

There is no fighting gods, unless you’re Oikawa. Not even the freshly bought good luck charm can compare. Still, he holds out the golden charm, the edge of his knuckles nearly brushing against Oikawa’s arm. “If you want.”

Golden thread shimmers in Oikawa’s eyes. He scrunches up his nose, but hastily takes the charm. “I won’t need it anyway.”

“Probably not.”

The clock strikes midnight, and the first gong of the temple bells echo through Kageyama’s chest. 

“80 times?”

“108,” Oikawa corrects. “Make a wish, Tobio-chan.”

There’s no way Kageyama can explain that he hasn’t thought of a wish, and that everything that might be one could easily happen in the future. Wishes are for fantasy, not reality. He stays silent through the chatter around him, and claps his hands together twice.

_ Let me throw away my crown. Bring us victory at nationals. _

_ I can’t play against Oikawa-san again. Make me better. _

_ New members. I won’t be a king again. _

_ It’s my last year. Land me that university scholarship.  _

_ Work harder. Impress the coach. _

_ Starting string next year. _

_ Something’s still not right. I’m not seeing the world. Let me see it like he did. _

_ Professional tryouts are coming up. Let them know what I am. _

_ Together, with Oikawa-san.  _

So many wishes over the years, chasing after the man who grew from the earth and set the court aglow. Just once, he wanted to grab a flicker of the emerging sunlight, and this year, the person who dazzled him so violently is praying by his side.

Kageyama bows his head, and wishes that he can stay by the sun just a little bit longer. 


End file.
